


The Knight and the Vaulter

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Angst, Pining, Secret Identities, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:02:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: Often, in the privacy of the shower or his room, he’d examine the tattoos on both his wrists: Vaulter on the left, Gary Unwin on the right. According to both legend and science, the one indicated your enemy and the other, your soulmate, and you didn’t know which was which until you met both of them.Harry used to be certain that Eggsy was his soulmate, but as the months ticked by without so much as a sign from Eggsy, he’s now resigned to think that Eggsy either does not feel the same way—or simply doesn’t have his name at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [caramelt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelt/gifts).



> Agent-galahart tossed a few AUs my way for the 500 follower fic giveaway, and I latched onto this one: “Supervillain/Superhero + Soulmates AU.” 
> 
> This fic is partially inspired by the fake film set in The Colin Firth Effect and that tumblr prompt post about getting two names written on your skin: one is your soulmate and one is your mortal enemy. Also, this may have some Tony Stark parallels; keep in mind I’ve never seen the Iron Man movies--just the first Avengers movie and part of _The Winter Soldier at the gym_ , as well as _Agent Carter_. (I know. I’ve never seen the rest. Shhh.)

* * *

Normally, when parents die, they leave you their house and a modest inheritance in their will.

In Harry’s case, his parents left him a sprawling mansion with house keepers, an amount of money that made him immediately rush over to the lawyers, and a multi-billion-dollar company that had been in the Hart family for generations.

Needless to say, Harry was kept busy for a good time period, fielding calls from journalists and hiding indoors whenever possible. Truth to tell, he found it hard to grieve for parents who had essentially ignored him most of his life, except during obligatory holidays when they pestered him about the company, getting married, or both.

The car accident had been shocking, but Harry couldn’t even bring himself to cry, and as trivial and cold as it sounded, he didn’t even know what image play to the cameras, spending hours into the night writing a lengthy speech to give at the funeral.

“What’s a better way to say that _there’s a hole in the company and in my family_?” Harry asked one evening to Merlin, who’d first snorted and tossed out unhelpful suggestions that either sounded too cold or too overdramatic.

His assistant, Eggsy, only replied with “why are you lying?,” and Harry had sighed, “It won’t do for me to seen as a heartless bastard,” then more waspishly, “Besides, you probably don’t know what it’s like to have parents who don’t give a damn about you.”

He’d later apologized, but Eggsy, loyal as ever replied, “I understand, bruv. Just…keep it short and simple, I guess, and make a few key points; people will read between the lines and think that you said something clever that you really didn’t.”

“You’re full of surprises,” Harry said, pleased.

Eggsy had shrugged modestly. “It’s like when I wrote essays in secondary. The teachers would bang on about some implication I raised, and I didn’t have the heart to tell them I wasn’t that smart.”

“Nonsense, you _are_ smart,” Harry protested, inwardly pleased when red bloomed on Eggsy’s cheeks and also inwardly _longing_.

He tries not to think, while driving to work today, of the names hidden underneath his long sleeves.

Often, in the privacy of the shower or his room, he’d examine the tattoos on both his wrists: _Vaulter_ on the left, _Gary Unwin_ on the right. According to both legend and science, the one indicated your enemy and the other, your soulmate, and you didn’t know which was which until you met both of them.

Harry used to be certain that Eggsy was his soulmate, but as the months ticked by without so much as a sign from Eggsy, he’s now resigned to think that Eggsy either does not feel the same way—or simply doesn’t have his name at all.

Unrequited soulmates are the subject of many a maudlin movie or show, and Harry refuses to sit on the couch and eat a pint of ice cream or chug a whole bottle of whiskey. There’s no use in mourning it; Eggsy is young and quick-witted and sweet and loving, and except for the quick-witted part, Harry is the complete opposite of these traits.

Not to mention, Harry’s life is beyond difficult, and to drag Eggsy into it would be—

“Oi! The light!” someone curses, and wincing, Harry steps on the gas and determinedly does not look back.

* * *

When he steps into the office, Harry politely nods at the passing people, beating a quick retreat to his office and practically slamming the door.

 _You do not need alcohol,_ he thinks. _You do not._

A knock on the door interrupts his thoughts, and uttering a “come in,” Harry doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or dismayed when Eggsy strolls in, bearing a familiar tray of coffee and a grease-stained paper bag.

“Hello, Mr. Hart,” Eggsy says, with a smile entirely too chipper for seven in the morning, “coffee?”

“Have I ever denied you?” Harry sighs, taking the offered paper cup and watching his assistant set down the bag containing his breakfast. “Thank you, Eggsy.”

Eggsy nods, smiling softly with his eyes fastened to the floor, and Harry forces himself to remember that he was double the age of the young man _and_ his boss. The potential for lawsuits is strong, not to mention that Eggsy most certainly does not feel the same way.

“No problem,” Eggsy cheerily replies. “I know how you get otherwise. Anything else you need?"

Harry sighs, thinking. “I can’t remember if my meeting is at seven-thirty or at seven.”

Eggsy whips out his tablet and frantically jabs at the screen. “It’s at seven-fifteen! Hurry, Mr. Hart, you’re going to be late!”

“I’m always late,” Harry replies, but hurries along anyway.

Of course, he _is_ late, but everyone is used to it now, and the only glare he receives is from Chester, the head of the financial department. At the opposite end of the table, Valentine, with his assistant, Gazelle, only smiles and waves. “Good to see you, Mr. Hart.”

“Good to see you,” Harry replies through his teeth. In another lifetime, he’s sure he and Valentine would get along, but not as heads of rivaling technology companies, and he has a suspicion that Valentine’s getting passed Kingsman’s company secrets. “Now, on to business—”

Once again, they go through a tedious, two-hour debate on whether Valentine and Kingsman should merge, along with a proposed diplomatic deal that has a three-line name on the documents. Charts and statistics are shown. Merlin, Harry’s co-owner of the damn operation, takes notes and offers comments. Valentine eats his McDonalds and extra helping of hash browns. Harry nibbles on his breakfast burrito and drinks his coffee. Chester drones on and on for ten minutes instead of five. Gazelle simply stares as if she can see into Harry’s soul. 

It’s all incredibly boring and unnerving.

And so is the rest of the day: meeting after meeting, a quick lunch break, and more meetings.

It’s almost a relief when part of the embassy explodes.

Eggsy’s gone—family emergency, apparently—so Harry doesn’t have to make up some bullshit excuse. Instead, he informs Merlin that he’s on his way down into the basement and allows the scanners to do their job, letting him into the lab.

He presses his palm against a scanner and watches what looks like an overlarge filing cabinet open to reveal what he and Merlin had built a long time ago, albeit with a more streamlined designed as the years went by. It still looks like a suit of armor, silver and polished and made of near-indestructable material, and at the left hip is Merlin’s brainchild: a sword with such a powerful electrical current that it could likely knock an elephant out.

Harry puts on the armored suit and helmet, quickly testing to see if everything works. After ducking in a nearby alley, Harry leaps, activating the jet packs built into the suit, and hastens in the direction of the billowing smoke and screams.

“Princess Tilde was visiting on some diplomatic visit,” Merlin informs him, as Harry flies as fast as he can. “And it looks like she and her prime minister were kidnapped. I’m guessing our culprits, once again, are Switchblade and Vaulter.”

“Hopefully not at once,” Harry says.

“I’m scanning the city and trying to find them. In the meantime, I suppose you’ll want to make a quick stop at the embassy. Most of the west wing has collapsed; the fire department is already there, but there’s someone trapped underneath some debris.” A map quickly flashes on the screen built inside his helmet, with a flashing light indicating where the destruction is. “Looks pretty heavy—think you can handle it?”

Harry does, rushing past the throngs of people trying to crane their heads over the barrier and ignoring the surprised cries of _It’s the Knight!_

Flames lick around the building and against his suit, but Harry doesn’t feel a thing. Instead, he scans the area, keeping his eyes and ears open.

The woman widens her eyes when she catches sight of him—silver and blue flashing in the light of the flames around them. Harry also startles, recognizing her as part of the British liaison to welcome Princess Tilde and her entourage to London: Roxanne Morton, who had a reputation for being level-headed but unwilling to take bullshit.

“It’s my leg, sir,” she says politely, oh so politely British, when he approaches. “I’ve tried to lift this off me, but—”

“I got you,” Harry says, making sure the voice distorter works, then bracing himself, lifts what he can so the woman can free her legs. “You seem calm.”

“Oh, goodness, I nearly died in a skydiving accident a few years back when my parachute wasn’t opening,” Roxanne says, coughing, and hastening to tie part of her jacket around her nose and mouth. “And I was in the military for years, besides. I’d like to say that this is nothing.”

When Harry exits the building, Roxanne in his arms, someone shouts her name, running forward with soot on his face and a paramedic racing behind him, waving an oxygen mask. “Thank God, Roxy, you’re okay—" 

“I’m _fine,_ Uncle Alastair, I’m fine,” Roxanne insists, then turns to Harry. “The people who took the princess and prime minister—they went in the direction of that direction—” she points, coughing a bit. “They _flew, too—_ this city, I swear—” she mutters, looking very much like she wants to keep both feet on the ground.

Thanking her, Harry takes off, following Merlin’s added directions about a strange signal coming from a cell phone tower. Activating what Merlin’s called “the hearing aid” in his helmet, Harry listens, ducking behind something on the roof.

“I will never join you!” a woman’s voice snarls defiantly, although Harry can easily sense fear in her voice. “This is mad!”

“Princess, think, this can save the world,” a man says, voice resolute in its wheedling. “Be reasonable.”

“This is coming from a man who orchestrated my kidnapping, stood by when these mad…robots killed my guards, and is now asking me to join in a plot that will kill people? What is wrong with you, you fucking—”

“He’s giving you an option,” another says, artificial and cold—Switchblade, definitely. “You can save yourself and the world, or we can take care of you right now—”

Harry springs into action, swooping in so quickly that no one on the tower has time to react, and snatches the princess in his arms.

Merlin warns, “Harry, wait—”

Tilde shrieks when something heavy thumps Harry right in the back. It doesn’t knock him out of the sky, but the blow does jar him enough that he has to concentrate to steady himself again.

Vaulter’s voice—altered, like Harry’s—comes out in a sneer. “You thought you could be her knight in shining armor?” He’s floating in the air, without any assistance from jet packs or special technology, arms crossed smugly over his chest. If he and Harry weren’t about to get into yet another fight, he’d ask Vaulter what it was like to leap and soar through the sky, rivaling any trapeze artist.

“What do you want with Swedish royalty?” Harry demands, still holding Tilde around her waist, trying to calculate how fast he can switch her to one arm and draw his weapon. “What does you have planned?”

“Like I’ll tell you.” Vaulter lifts his head, chin jutting out arrogantly. “Give me the princess, Knight, and I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry replies.

If he could see Vaulter’s face, Harry would be sure he’s smiling by the way he says, too casually, “All right, then.”

Tilde screams again when Vaulter, in one, quick motion, draws a pistol from his belt and fires.

But Harry doesn’t bleed, bruise, or even wince when the specially-made bullet tears through his armor and strikes his chest. Instead, he calmly lands on the ground, pushing Tilde behind him, as he draws his weapon, silver and shining in the afternoon sun.

“Unbreakable,” she says, eyes wide, then mutters something in Swedish—Harry guesses a swear word—under her breath.

Harry passes her something from his belt and has enough have time to tell her which button to push when Vaulter fires from above. Harry dodges, shielding Tilde, and occasionally lets the bullets graze his shoulder or arm when they’re too fast. Merlin mutters directions in his ear, then is reduced to yelling, _“Left! Left! Right!”_ when Vaulter runs out of bullets and decides to engage Harry in a good, old-fashioned street brawl.

Tilde wisely scurries out of range, clutching the device in her hands, as Harry swings his sword and Vaulter leaps or spins out of the way. He’s deadly acrobatic—graceful, even—but there’s a focused rage in his limited punches and kicks. Harry’s defeated him time and time again, but still remembers the first battle, when Vaulter ran at him, screaming in wordless anger. Merlin’s attempted to figure out his identity, as he’s tried with Switchblade, but something in the masks is impenetrable, scrambling the facial features underneath into something unrecognizable.

 _What have I done to you?_ Harry thinks, not for the first time, as he neatly lands a blow, sending Vaulter jerking in spasms on the asphalt. _What made you come after me?_

Advancing, Harry prepares to restrain him when Vaulter raises his arm and squeezes his hand into a fist, and Harry flinches in time to avoid a projectile to the face, but his chest seizes when it speeds towards Tilde, who raises what Harry’s given her in front of her body and squeezes the trigger, shutting her eyes.

“Oh!” she exclaims, but has the sense not to peek her head around the shield to better spot the dagger embedded into it.

Briefly distracted, Harry doesn’t notice until it’s nearly too late when Vaulter lunges, knocking his sword from his hand, and pins him to the ground, ejecting what looks like gnarled knives from up his sleeve, hooking Harry to the asphalt.

“Take her back to the base and see if we can’t convince her there!” Vaulter then shouts.   

“No!” Harry roars, but it’s too late—Switchblade is faster than anyone alive, snatching the princess and flying off, jets of white and purple emitting from her back like wings. He then glares up at Vaulter, trying not to betray his fear when the other man rises, fists clenched at his sides. Preparing for a mortal blow, Harry mentally apologizes to Merlin for having to see this, closing his eyes.

But nothing happens. When Harry opens his eyes again, Vaulter’s flying away—up, up, up—until he becomes nothing more than a speck against the blue sky. 

* * *

 “Are you all right, Mr. Hart?” Eggsy asks the next morning, bearing another cup of coffee and a sticky pastry.

"What have I told you about calling me _Harry_ when we're alone?" Harry teases. "Mr. Hart was my father, not me." Then, groaning, Harry shifts in his chair, cursing Vaulter with each twinge of pain. “And I’m fine, just haven’t been getting enough sleep,” he lies. “What about you? You look a bit banged up.”

Eggsy’s mouth twists. “Parkour accident,” he mutters, but Harry doesn’t believe him. He knows about Eggsy’s stepfather—even has broken up some of his nastier operations as the Knight—and has seen Eggsy come into the office, limping with bruises painstakingly hidden by concealer. Discreetly, with Merlin’s aid, Harry’s looked into Eggsy’s record—petty theft, drugs, solicitation—and the CCTV cameras around his estate, with the dingy alleyways, the sneering throngs of what Harry’s deduced are Eggsy’s stepfather’s friends, Eggsy’s own mother and sister rarely stepping outside, and Eggsy fleeing from his flat, hood drawn.

“Eggsy,” Harry says, and in spite of himself, puts a hand on Eggsy’s arm. He’s never allowed himself to touch Eggsy, and the ridiculous little thrill that shoots up his arm at the contact makes him realize how far gone he is. “Please, if you—if you need help, you can always come to me.”

Eggsy steps back, away from his touch, smiling bitterly. Shamefaced, Harry lowers his hand.

“You have a conference call at eight, Mr. Hart, with the American branch, sir,” he says, tone perfectly even, lilting up into the posh accent he uses for the higher-ups who sneer at the East London dropped consonants. “Lunch will also be pushed back to one-thirty, and you’re meeting with another investor after that; Merlin also wants to meet with you at five. Shall I make dinner reservations for the two of you?”

“Eggsy—” Harry begins, but his assistant shakes his head.

“Just let me know so I can call ahead,” Eggsy says, then pushes the door open. Looking back at Harry, Eggsy then murmurs, his eyes weary and solemn, “Thank you for your offer, Harry, but you can’t save me.”

* * *

 Days pass. Harry rescues people, tries to figure out the cryptic plot he managed to overhear, find the princess herself, and ignore his feelings for Eggsy.

All are not easy. He and Merlin spend long nights in the basement and at each other’s houses, trying new strategies, and each one turns up dead end after dead end with no leads. Even with Merlin’s hacking and Harry’s patrols around the city, nothing of value turns up. There’s also phone calls and press and deals; the only thing Harry can find comfort in is that Valentine and Gazelle are no longer calling for another round of meetings. They’re too busy unveiling something big, as the rumors say, and Harry wonders from day to day what it is.

And Eggsy.

Throughout his meetings, Harry tries to pay attention, but at another alert from Eggsy on his tablet about a change in his schedule, his mind begins to wander.

He imagines Eggsy greeting him with a kiss and coffee in the morning. He imagines Eggsy smiling as Harry brushes his neatly-parted hair back in preparation for another meeting. He imagines Eggsy, as much as it embarrasses him, bent backwards over the mahogany desk and arms scrabbling to undo the buttons on Harry's shirt. 

More frequently at late, he pictures his and Eggsy's hands piecing together a suit of metal and gadgets of Eggsy's own. Teaching Eggsy how to fight, how to defend, how to even exchange witty banter—the list goes on and on until Harry finds himself actually drawing blueprints in his spare time. He thinks of names; though the media always names superheroes, but he thinks: The Wing-footed Boy, Hermes, something with wings because Eggsy is meant to soar, above the ground, above anyone who can hurt him.

How besotted he is. Harry's tempted to tear up the blueprints, but can't bring himself to do so, telling himself it is because of the designs and technological ideas. Instead, he files them away and forces himself to focus on the mind-numbing details of business.

He doesn’t have to look at his wrists again. The names that are tattooed on each of his wrists are burned into his memory.

It’s far too late to be at the office, but Harry honestly doesn’t have the energy to get up from the desk and drive home. Merlin’s long gone, and Harry can’t even bring himself to pick up the phone and dial a cab. It’s been one of those days, where he’s both too busy and has too much time to think while the world crawls by at a snail’s pace, and he wonders, not for the first time, if he’s somehow wasting his life.

A knock diverts his musings, and Harry, surprised, calls a “come in!,” then freezes when he sees Eggsy walk through the door, looking nearly as tired as he is. 

“You’re still here,” Harry murmurs, surprised. “I thought I told you that you can go for the night.”

“I didn’t,” Eggsy says simply. “But I guess now’s the time to ask if you’re going home. It’s getting late.”

Harry looks at his computer, the screen saver of the golden Kingsman logo rotating against a black background. “I should, yes,” he mutters absentmindedly. As if he was really doing anything anyway. “Would you like a lift home?”

“I can take the underground,” Eggsy says, and Harry shakes his head. 

“This late? No, no. I can spring for the cab.” Privately, he hopes Eggsy will share it with him, shoulder against his in the cramped backseat. “If you like, of course.”

Eggsy hesitates for a second before nodding. “All right,” he agrees. “But we’ll split the cost, yeah?”

“I honestly don’t mind paying for it all,” Harry says, standing up and whisking his coat off of his chair. Snatching his phone from his desk, he scrolls through the contact list until _Cab_ comes up.

“You’re not responsible for me.”

“I know, but I just would like to do something for you.” Harry pauses, thumb ghosting over the green phone icon. “Besides, you have your family to take care of. I have no one.”  

Eggsy tilts his head. “No Mrs. Hart?”

“No, and no Mr. Hart, either,” Harry replies candidly. “I don’t even have a dog anymore.”

“I’ve always wanted a dog,” Eggsy muses. “But my place doesn’t allow pets, and I’ll have to look for something that’ll be extra gentle with my sister.”

“If you get a terrier, they’ll be stubborn as hell, but they’re very intelligent and loyal companions,” Harry suggests, thinking fondly of Mr. Pickle. “Some are good lapdogs—will even sleep with you in the bed, if you’d like.”

“That does sound nice,” Eggsy admits, smiling. “Yeah. Something friendly.” His voice is softer when he admits, “And maybe someone beside me, one day.”

Something in his eyes draws Harry closer until he realizes that he’s almost nose to nose with Eggsy. His eyes are the Scottish shores, shrouded by mist. He’d love to take Eggsy to the place he and Merlin used to explore during summer holidays, with its looming cliffs and pebbled beaches. They can stroll side by side, hand in hand. Perhaps they’d drink hot cocoa from the same thermos or share pastries from a white paper bag. Eggsy’s cheeks would be red from the chill, hair a tangled mess Harry would run his fingers through. They’d laugh at the futile effort, and—

“Harry?” Eggsy breathes, lips just brushing his.

Harry kisses him. It’s not quite open-mouthed, and the first thing he notices is how dry Eggsy’s lips are, chapped, with a tiny ridge of a healing cut. He ought to suggest to Eggsy about the healing remedies of beeswax, then imagines dabbing it on, rubbing it in slowly, getting sticky lips when he finishes and kisses Eggsy.

He’s thinking about gentling his tactic when Eggsy pulls away, so suddenly that he nearly bumps against the desk. His hands are raised slightly in the air, eyes wide. “No,” he says wildly. “No.”

“I'm sorry,” Harry pleads, horrified at his recklessness and Eggsy's dismay. How could he have done this? “I apologize for this...this breach of conduct, and if you file a harassment claim, I'll accept it. I won't fight it—”

“No, no,” Eggsy interrupts, backing away towards the door. “No, I won't—I won’t do that—” 

“Your job is safe,” Harry protests, fighting to keep him and fighting for him to trust him again, “if you even—”

“Fuck, Harry, _fuck_ , I—” Eggsy shakes his head. “No, no, just…I gotta go.”

* * *

The next morning, Eggsy resigns. 

Rather, he leaves his letter on Harry's desk, along with coffee and breakfast, and isn't seen for the day. Harry numbly reads it, grants his approval, and files it.

The rest of the day, Harry throws himself into work, trying not to think about how badly he cocked this up, debating with himself to look Eggsy up to give him a letter of recommendation, and ignoring Merlin’s concerned looks when he sits down with Harry for lunch.

“It’s looks like Valentine is cooking up something very massive,” Harry says, holding up his tablet to the article. “Free SIM cards for everyone. God knows how he was able to keep this under wraps.”

“I know,” Merlin replies. “Our stocks don’t look good. This is a major PR move, and you’d think…well, there’s no such thing as a free lunch, as the Americans say.”

“Research it,” Harry says. “Find something—health risks, fine print, you name it. In the meantime, have Chester crunch some numbers and see how much this will hit us.”

“We already have some television networks under our belts, as well as a few gadgets of our own,” Merlin notes. “But we need something new to unveil. It won’t stop Valentine, but it will garner interest in our company again.”

Harry sighs. “All right, then.”

Merlin nods. “Meanwhile, I’ve sent out an application for you to review for a new assistant, since Eggsy…”

“I don’t want a new assistant.”

“Harry,” Merlin says, “you have enough on your plate, and this company keeps you up too long. Delegate.”

“Well, I’ll see if I can handle it.” Harry knows his friend wants to ask what happened, but refuses to let a single detail of his shame slip. “In the meantime, we work on Valentine and try to find out what Vaulter and Switchblade were talking about, as well as where the princess is.”

* * *

Another late night later, Harry sighs, rubs at his throbbing head, and heads out. It’s still raining, so he makes sure to grab his umbrella on his way out, saying goodbye to the janitorial crew as he passes through the front door. He’s not looking forward to the drive home, but hopefully, a warm house with some tea would soothe his jangled nerves.

Just as he’s approaching his car in the underground parking structure, Harry hears a familiar whoosh and whirls around, raising his umbrella.

Vaulter stands before him, arms crossed. “Come with me,” he says. 

Out of all things Vaulter could say to him, Harry hadn’t expected that, but backs away, playing the part of a helpless civilian. “Excuse me? Who are _you_?”

“You should know who I am, _Knight_.”

Harry—just barely—represses a jump, tamping down the panic with a cool "Excuse me?" 

“I've been watching you,” Vaulter says, “for a long time. For years. And I need you to come with me, now.”

“Fat chance of that,” Harry says, then chucks the umbrella at him and runs.  

If he can get to the basement, he can get his suit, but can’t let Vaulter know where it is. Harry has his indestructibility, but hasn’t been under much duress without a suit or Merlin in his ears. He’s followed his parents’ wishes to be a part of their company, then trained with Merlin in various fighting styles in between building the suit, but he hasn’t actually fought Vaulter or Switchblade or any other madmen without something else protecting him.

He’s really on his own, Harry realizes, and even though Vaulter couldn’t stab or shoot him, he could carry him away, and Harry’s not going to allow that to happen.

 _You’re a bloody engineer_ , he thinks, ducking behind a pillar. _Think of something._

His eyes land on a car, parked a little ways near a concrete wall.

Saying silent apologies to the owner of the car, Harry ducks behind it, pulls out his cell phone, and gets to work, willing his hands to be steady. He’s seen something like this when a terrorist tried to explode a part of London and prays.

He can hear Vaulter coming, and just too late, wonders if his own indestructability can stand a bomb. 

Well, fuck it.

Harry triggers the detonator.

It’s not like the movies, but it’s hot enough to feel the heat against his skin, his flesh melting and ears popping, as he runs, ignoring Vaulter’s shout of pain and surprise. Harry might not be able to die from this—thank God—but he does hurt like hell.

Fumbling for his keys, he manages to rush into the building and get on his suit, quickly as possible. Even though Merlin is doubtless at home and sleeping like a sensible person, Harry activates his comms anyway, heading over with his mask—even though the jig is up, he still has others to hide from—firmly in place.

The villain—Eggsy—is lying face-down on the ground, groaning. He doesn’t quite seem to be able to move without hissing or groaning in pain, so Harry approaches, sword raised, and just as Vaulter looks up, brings the weapon down.

The electrical pulse isn’t enough to really hurt him, only paralyze temporarily, and Harry bends over his body. Vaulter seems smaller, now, and Harry can see the blistering red flesh, especially on his hands, where the gloves had mostly burned away. The heated armor itself looks like it’s causing more harm than help, so Harry, ignoring the pain in his hands, begins to unbuckle and pry it from his skin.

_The Knight._

Harry's blood turns cold, then paws at the other wrist, stripping away the armor to reveal another name.

_Harry Hart._

* * *

 

 “Do what you like with me, but first...make sure my family is safe.”

Harry shakes his head, though he doesn’t take away the sword pointed at Eggsy’s chest, covered only by one of Harry’s old shirts. He’s tied meticulously to Harry’s kitchen chair as well, wrists and ankles bound with rope, but wounds wrapped and dressed. “I'm not going to kill you.”

“I won’t blame you.” Eggsy then juts out his chin, and although his posture is defiant and proud, his words aren’t, tumbling out of his lips: “I didn't know he was going to make me kill you, swear down, just spy, and I couldn’t do that, I swear.”

“He?” Harry asks. “You work for someone else?”

Eggsy nods. “You know him as Valentine.”

Harry stares. “I thought…I would have thought _Vaulter_ was him.”

Eggsy shakes his head. "No, Valentine would never go out into the field. He can't fight, and...he's afraid of blood, actually. But you may have seen Gazelle."

“Switchblade,” Harry says, and Eggsy confirms it with a nod. “But how did you become Vaulter?”

He hasn’t really expected Eggsy to tell him, but Eggsy does: “When I was...I dunno, two, I figured out I could fly. That wasn’t a problem until my dad died, and my mum remarried. He—Dean—was a businessman, and he figured out he could use me. Sell me off for people who wanted my services.” He takes a deep breath. “And Valentine discovered me. I guess he liked me, so he recruited me to work for him permanently. He has Gazelle, who can slice through anything, and me. He likes the classics, I suppose.”

“What’s this have to do with me?” Harry asks.

“He steals tech and got a mole, Chester—“

“That _bastard_ —“

“But he could only get so far. You didn’t like him, and Valentine wanted someone in his ear that you’d trust. And…” Eggsy smiles, brittle and thin. “You got me.”

 _I did_ , Harry thinks. He remembers how nervous Eggsy was during the interview, but how qualified—the resume, he now thinks, must have been faked—and intelligent once warmed up.

The sword is now at his side, but he’s no longer afraid. Eggsy can be toying with him, but somehow _knows_ he isn’t.

“I thought Valentine was doing the right thing with the wrong methods. He talks about saving the world all time, but…the SIM cards, they can trigger this rage, this disease. He’s already tested it out in some other countries.” He looks up at Harry, desperate and full of remorse. “I tried to stop their progress whenever I could, but Valentine can override the suit if he doesn't like my decisions. Plus, he's got my family.” Eggsy’s quiet for a minute. “I didn't want to be a weapon, but that’s all I’m good for, really.” 

Harry protests, “You’re clever—”

“And what a fat load of good it did me!” Eggsy exclaims bitterly. “If I wasn't, Valentine wouldn't have seen some sick potential in me. Wouldn't have properly trained me. Wouldn't have forced me to fight my fucking _soulmate_.”

Horror grips Harry by the lungs. “Your wrists. Did he know—”

Eggsy shakes his head. “I always hid them, since Dean came into my life: reapplied makeup every day with some fake names, hid them with sleeves, you name it. I thought I was protecting this Harry Hart or this Knight—protecting _you_ —thought _there’s no way he could take this from me_ , but I was wrong.” He looks up. “To tell you the truth, I was hoping you'd be my enemy because the other possibility...”

Harry knows, finally setting his sword on the table. “I'm sorry I kissed you,” he says quietly.  

“Sorry because you wish it wasn't me?”

Harry looks at him. Eggsy’s expression is clearly resigned. “No, it's because I thought you didn't...”

"Oh." Eggsy's cheeks are pink. "Oh. I did. But, uh, I couldn't, you know, with the whole...villain thing." 

“I understand.” Harry then laughs self-deprecatingly. “Vaulter and Eggsy Unwin. I should have...I should have put it together. I just couldn't imagine...” He shakes his head, stepping forward. “I’m going to untie you now.”

Eggsy’s perfectly still when Harry undoes the knots, and Harry moves back, tensing out of habit once Eggsy’s free. But Eggsy doesn’t move, save for rubbing his wrists and ankles, trying to get circulation back into them. He’s still seated, and when he looks up, his eyes are fierce and bright with determination.

“First,” Eggsy declares, “we’re going to get some take-out, preferably from Nandos. Second, we’re going to sit down, and I’m going to tell you what I know about those SIM cards. And third,” he smiles, “we’re going to save the fucking day.”


End file.
